


Darkness of Birth

by njchrispatrick



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dark Harry Potter, Human Experimentation, possible slash, pseudo-mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/njchrispatrick/pseuds/njchrispatrick
Summary: Howard Stark was remembered as a hero, but he was not a good man. Steve did not expect his friend's dark turn. He would never have believed it if it weren't for Tony's animosity, the certificate tucked into a forgotten drawer, and the photo of a baby with blonde hair and curious brown eyes.





	1. Chapter 1

Tony winced as another needle was removed from his arm, the tube full of blood, and he sent a fierce glare at the person holding it. Howard was not phased by it, ignoring his son's gaze as he placed the vial of blood onto the medical table, next to a matching one, taking care to keep it away from the bloody instruments that also were present. Then he offered Tony a small smile, ignoring the following growl from the Stark heir, as he pulled off his latex gloves.

"There we go, Anthony," he spoke cheerfully, pushing the rolling table of instruments towards the door. "I'll just go run a few tests to make sure that the baby's fine and didn't inherit any of your defects." He glanced down at the vials again, one from Tony and the other from the newborn baby, before exiting the room.

Tony stared at the door for a long moment before turning his gaze to the infant bed a few feet away from his own one. He narrowed his eyes at the child within, the little boy's arms splayed out and his eyes closed. Tony felt a surge of anger and hatred rise up in him at the sight.

As a child he had always craved his father's love, for the man to see him as something other than an accessory or business investment. By the age of thirteen those delusions had passed and Tony had realized that Howard would never love him, evidenced by him shipping Tony off to boarding school and then college as soon as he could. Sometimes Tony wondered why Howard hadn't abandoned him or cut him off, though he never questioned it.

Now he wished that Howard had. What that bastard had done to Tony, experimenting on him, forcing him to become _pregnant_ with the baby of a long-dead friend of his father's… it was sickening and violating in the most extreme ways. All to create the little brat sleeping near Tony without a care in the world. Howard had named him Steven Stark, with Howard as his middle name, no doubt to prevent the kid from getting attached to Tony. Tony had no doubt that the kid would grow up getting everything that Tony had not; attention, benefits, and a twisted, obsessive form of love.

Tony didn't want to be a parent. After having a father like Howard he never had, originally for fear of turning out like Howard but now because Tony couldn't stand the thought. If, for some reason, he ever fathered a child, he would find a way to keep them out of his life.

It was that thought that spawned an idea in Tony's mind. He didn't want this kid, but at the same time he wouldn't kill an innocent. But Howard cared for the boy, and nothing would hurt him more than losing his prize. There might be a way for Tony to win after all…

He reached over to the side table, biting his lips at the pain caused by his stitches pulling. By the time Tony had grabbed his phone he thought they were going to burst, though luckily they held. Howard had left the phone, confident that Tony would not be able to do anything; nobody would believe him. However, Tony had no intention of calling for help.

He pressed zero and waited for a moment. "Hello operator?" he said, casting a quick glance at the door. "Can you tell me the names of the adoption agencies in the New York area?"

Fifteen minutes later Steven woke up and began crying loudly. Howard arrived faster than Tony thought possible and was quick to soothe the newborn with warm formula, picking the boy up and carrying him out to the hallway. He didn't look at Tony even once.

* * *

Tony walked into the gleaming office building, his rain-soaked sneakers squeaking slightly on the marble with each step. He ignored the many looks of businessmen, all no doubt confused about the intent of a ratty teen in jeans and a T-Shirt. What attracted even more stares was the two-month-old baby that lay in a small car seat he was carrying with him. Tony strode to the elevator, happy to see that the first one to open was empty. He was tired of judging stares.

He placed the carrier down as he pressed the button for the fifteenth floor and leaned against one of the mirrored walls. Tony tried to keep his eyes on the slowly rising numbers (too slowly-they needed better elevators), but his dark eyes were quickly directed at the infant. Steven wasn't Tony's son; if anything, he was Howard's. Sure Tony had contributed half the DNA and had been the one to get pregnant, but not by choice. Howard was the instigator. Howard was the parent. Tony was a forced surrogate. Steven was his blood, nothing else.

Steven's brown eyes, so like Tony's own, were wide, darting around as he tried to take in all the different colors and shapes that were distorted in the metal walls. Tony knew that the boy couldn't possibly comprehend anything around him but wondered if Steven would one day be as smart as his… as Tony. Tony rather hoped not, if only because genii had a worrisome habit of finding each other.

Then the elevator dinged, telling him that they had reached the fifteenth floor. He bent down to pick up the baby, ignoring the recognition dawning in Steven's eyes when the baby saw him, and walked out.

Tony only took a few steps before pausing and looking around with one eyebrow raised. This… was not what he expected from an adoption center. He wasn't sure why but he had expected more babies, like an orphanage or something. Instead it was mostly glass and steel with mirrors lining the walls. The mirrors irked him-he felt like they were trying to make him feel guilty or something.

Truthfully Tony didn't feel guilty. He didn't feel sad, either. He didn't want this baby and he was not obligated to raise him. This would be the best chance the kid would have, along with the benefit of pissing Howard off.

"Mr. Star?" spoke a female voice from the desk, getting his attention. He stepped up to the desk and nodded.

'Star' was the pseudonym he had registered under, for his own safety. The adoption lawyer he had spoken to knew who he was but was under a verbal contract to keep silent.

The black-haired woman looked him up and down and Tony could nearly feel her judging him. A teenager, probably not even an adult yet, irresponsible, and careless enough to father a child out of wedlock. It made Tony's blood boil that people would judge him even when they knew nothing about him.

"I'm here to see Mr. Burns," he said, his face showing none of the emotion he felt. The woman at least attempted to be professional and directed him to the correct hallway.

As it turned out the man he was looking for was as far from the desk as it was probably possible to be on this floor. Steven started to whimper, Tony assumed from tiredness, so the teenager dropped a blanket over the top of the carrier to keep out the light. If Steven started crying then Tony really had no clue what to do, but this was a building full of baby lovers so someone would probably know what to do.

He stopped outside a door, the one he was looking for if the nameplate was correct. "Well then," he muttered to himself, placing a hand on the doorknob. "Here goes everything."

Tony opened the door.

* * *

It took two weeks.

Two weeks of paper signing, personal and legal verification, and hiding his intentions from Howard before Tony was allowed to give up the kid. He could have done it sooner but then the kid would have ended up with a foster family, and Howard might have been able to track Steven down. This way Steven would not only be out of his reach, but even out of the country, all because Tony had taken the time to grease the way.

Tony watched as the little blonde boy sat in the arms of the woman coming to take him away, his little fist halfway into his mouth as he patted the woman's face with his other hand. She was smiling as she gently pushed his hand down and made it wave to Tony. Steven followed the direction of his arm, dark eyes locking on Tony. Tony could see the kid's eyebrows scrunch together as he recognized Tony. The genius took that as his cue to leave.

He dropped into the driver's seat of his car, turning it on and listening to the soft purring of the engine for a moment before looking out the window. The woman was still standing right outside the glass doors, Steven in her arms. But right now the baby was bawling his eyes out, reaching out towards Tony's car. The poor woman was doing her best to hold the boy steady.

For just a second Tony wondered if he was doing the right thing, leaving the kid to the chaos of the adoption system. However, that thought was ruthlessly crushed as he remembered the circumstances leading to the creation of Steven. He was not Tony's problem.

So, with that, Tony pressed the gas and drove away.

* * *

Tony felt Obi's hand on his shoulder as the older man came up behind him, his shoes squelching slightly on the damp grass. They were the only two left at the cemetery, everyone else having gone home after paying their respects. Tony had stayed for a while longer. He was sure that everyone else thought it was from sadness, but it was the exact opposite.

He was happy. No, strike that, happiness did not accurately describe the extent of his joy. Tony was _ecstatic_ , and in fact was barely able to keep a straight face when his father's coffin was lowered into the ground. It was a good thing that Howard's body was too grotesquely mangled to be displayed to the public, because Tony would have burst out laughing had he seen it.

Tony had _won_. After all his grandstanding, money making, speeches, and domineering, Howard had been killed in a _car crash_ of all things. It was perfection. The man who believed himself a god died like a pathetic mortal-full of rage and alcohol, on his way to murder Tony. The fact that Maria had died as well barely made a blip on Tony's emotional radar; she was a weak, greedy woman, who married Howard only to get money and make a name for herself.

Tony had called Howard an hour after dropping the kid off, which was all the time needed to get the kid on a plane to Europe. Howard had been in a business dinner but was more than happy to answer the phone when Tony called about "baby business". To say that the millionaire was angry was an understatement. Howard had been absolutely livid, storming out of the meeting with Maria in tow and rushing to his car. He hadn't paid any attention to his surroundings as he sped towards the house.

That was his downfall. Speeding through an intersection, Howard didn't notice an oncoming truck until it was nearly too late. He had swerved to avoid it and his tire hit the corner curb, sending them rolling. Both he and Maria were crushed, the open-topped sports car not offering any protection.

And Tony had been _free_. When he got the call he'd been cooped up in his house with Howard's gun, expecting his father to walk in and planning to blow the man's head off when he did, damn the consequences. But instead Howard had been killed by his own stupidity, not only freeing Tony from the tyrant but also from legal punishment.

It was for this reason that Tony had such a hard time at the funeral. For all his threats and grandstanding Howard had lost to his own son. Even better, by right of birth and thanks to Obadiah Tony had inherited all of his father's possessions, including shares to the company! The only downside to the entire event was that Howard would be remembered as a hero, not the scum he was.

"Ready to go, kid?" Obadiah asked softly, squeezing Tony's shoulder. "It's getting late."

Tony took a deep breath as he watched the rain seep into the freshly laid dirt on Howard and Maria's graves. They were his parents, but they were his past, and he could leave them behind now. Now, well, it was time for the world to prepare itself for a new dawn. The dawn of Tony Stark.

* * *

Diana Warbeck made another slash on her list as she walked through the Children's Wing of the hospital, her wand subtly tucked into her pocket. Yet another orphaned child was non-magical, like she expected.

Diana's unofficial job, one she had invented for herself, was as a magical Adoption Agent. It was something she had wanted to be ever since she was a little girl and she learned that she and her fraternal twin sister, singing sensation Celestina, were adopted, and lucky enough to be magical just like their adoptive parents. Diana wanted to give other children the same chance that she had gotten.

As she stepped into another room where an orphan was being checked over, her wand began to buzz in her pocket. Diana quickly reached into her pocket to cease the buzzing, though she remained focused on the little boy being checked over by a doctor. He was really quite adorable; big brown eyes, a surprisingly thick head of ash-blonde hair, and features that would clearly make him a heartbreaker when he got older.

The nurse looked over to her, smiling in recognition. "Diana, hi!" he greeted with a grin, his cheeks reddening slightly. "Making your rounds as usual?" It was well-known that Diana's job was to take patient inventory every day.

She smiled in return as she took a few steps closer. "Yep, same as always." The little boy heard her and looked up, dark eyes intelligent and curious. "And who's this little angel?"

The nurse, Graham, glanced over at his sheet. "Uh… Steven. Steven Stark." He laughed when Steven fussed at the cold stethoscope being placed against his stomach. "He's a feisty one. Funny, he has the same last name as that famous guy from America. What was his name again?"

Diana shrugged, only half-listening, as she made a check by Steven's name. "I can't remember, Edward I think it was?" She tucked the clipboard under her arm again. "Now if you'll excuse me Graham, I've got to go now. Lots to do!"

She barely waited for his farewell before hurrying out of there, committing the boy's name to memory. Then she pulled out her phone and dialed the number that had called her every day for the past month. It was picked up on the second ring. "Hello?" came the breathless woman's voice.

Diana smiled triumphantly. "Lily Potter? I've found one."

She could hear the shocked intake of breath and the shout of 'James!' on the other end of the phone. Within seconds another voice spoke. "You found one? You're sure?" exclaimed James Potter in excitement.

Even if no one could see her, Diana nodded. "A boy, he's almost three months old."

There was a moment of stunned silence before Lily spoke again. "And you're sure he's magical?"

Diana snorted. "I've done this lots of times, more than you'd think. I know what I'm doing. But yes. His name is Steven, he has blonde hair and brown eyes, and he needs a brand new mummy and daddy." She smirked to herself. "You up for the task?"

* * *

James and Lily sat in the waiting room of the small office, their hands clasped together. Their quiet murmuring ceased when the very woman they'd been waiting for, Diana Warbeck, walked in. She was carrying a muggle car seat, which immediately drew the attention of the couple.

"Thanks for waiting," Diana greeted with a soft smile. "He was asleep and fussed a little at being moved. But here he is!" She took a few steps closer and placed the carrier on one of the chairs in front of them. "This is Steven."

Bright green and hazel eyes fixed on the small child within. Steven was tiny, smaller than they had pictured, his little arms flailing around as he stared back at them. His eyes were a rich brown, wide and curious, and he had a tuft of dusty blonde hair that poofed up. He squealed a bit and kicked the fuzzie blue blanket, as if excited by something.

Diana grinned, even if her clients couldn't see, as they were too focused on the boy. "I think he likes you. That'd be good because he hasn't done much but cry and whimper since the agency got him." A touch of sadness colored her tone. "I think he is missing his daddy."

That got their attention, James and Lily both looking up at her. Steven made cooing sounds but they (reluctantly) ignored him. "His daddy?" James asked with a frown. "What do you mean? Did something happen to him?"

The adoption agent sighed and ran a finger through her short brown hair. "It's… not really my place to say," she admitted. "But Steven here wasn't exactly an… accident baby, like most that we see."

The Potters exchanged glances. "Then why was he given up?" asked Lily indignantly. "Did his parents decide that they just didn't want a kid?"

"Not exactly. To be honest, Steven was intended, but not wanted." She sighed again at their frowns. "Rape, Mrs. Potter. Rape with the intention of a child."

Lily sucked in a breath, horror evident in her expression. "His father-"

"Not him," Diana interrupted. "The mother, from what the agency was told. Apparently his father was forced to consummate with her by his own father, something to do with an important family connection. Not too unlike the pureblood mentality. She died in childbirth but Steven's grandfather took over care, forcing his son to participate. The father contacted us as a way to pass of the child as well as keeping him out of the grandfather's hands. Even luckier that the boy turned out to be a muggleborn, which makes him very well-hidden."

The Potters' gazed slowly returned to the little boy, who had developed a fascination with his feet and was attempting to eat his toes. He paused as he sucked on one, looking up at them with an expression that screamed "What?".

"The circumstances of his birth don't matter," James spoke firmly. "He's not at fault here. And while I can't say that I agree with what his father did, I can understand why he did it." The dark-haired man reached over to pull the fuzzy blanket back over Steven. "But now he's our son, and we won't let anything happen to him."


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

 

**A/N: I have a loose plan for this story but, again, it is falling secondary to some of my other (published or unpublished) stuff, _From Fire_  specifically, so don't expect regular updates. At the moment I only have specific plans through about Fourth Year, and although the years get progressively longer it is far from an established concept.**

**Expect some plot holes. This is far from my primary story and detailed continuity isn't something I care about a whole lot about, nor the progression speed. This story is purely to relax after working on the harder ones.**

**Lastly, something to know for this story: Harry is very smart. Tony-Stark-level smart. However, he is still a child, and inexperienced in magic, so don't expect him to suddenly master all kinds of strange things or understand particle physics. He has a knack for that kind of stuff, yea, but he is just a kid. So remember that.**

* * *

Harry looked up at the glittering stars dotting the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, feeling a surge of excitement at the world he was entering. A world of  _magic_. He'd always thought he was different, his aunt and uncle said he was a freak, but now he knew that even if he was a freak he wasn't the only one!

"Potter, Harry," Professor McGonagall called out. Whispers ran rampant through the hall as he stepped forward, unconsciously trying to flatten his thick black hair to no avail. He took a seat on the stool and the hat was placed on his head, sinking down over his eyes.

He almost jumped when a voice spoke in his ear, his hands curling around the edges of the stool to keep himself steady.

_"Hmm_ ," the voice said, drawing the word out like a suspicious adult. " _My, what a curious mind you have. Intelligence, oh my yes! Ambition and curiosity aplenty, though your work ethic could use some work. Adventurous, brave, you **are**  an enigma Mr. Potter. But where to put you?"_

_Not Slytherin_ , Harry thought as hard as he could, remembering Ron and Hagrid's words.

_"Not Slytherin, eh? But you have such potential; with a brain like yours you could change the world! With great risks come great rewards, after all."_

Harry shook his head slightly and kept chanting his mantra,  _Not Slytherin._

_"You're sure? Alright, better be_ GRYFFINDOR!" The last word was screamed out to the hall and the hat was plucked from his head.

Harry looked out over the cheering Gryffindor table and felt, for the first time, that he belonged.

* * *

"Wow Harry, that was great!"

"Awesome wandwork! You gotta teach me how to do that!"

Harry ducked his head to hide the grin across his face as Seamus and Dean hurried past, their words making him feel lighter than air. He'd gotten a lot of attention for managing the Levitation Spell on his first try, even managing to move a textbook by the end. Flitwick had been very impressed and had awarded ten points to Gryffindor.

Ron nudged him. "How'd you do that so easily?" he asked. The ginger boy had needed a bit of help, having struggled with the wand movement, but Harry had helped him with it and soon Ron's feather was twirling through the air.

Harry just shrugged. Magic came easy to him he'd realized, just like maths and science in school. Even if his grades weren't as good as they could've been he always understood what they were talking about, and magic was no different. The hard part was getting the wand movements right and he'd practiced those on the train to school. "I have a good memory," he quipped, grinning at his friend and receiving one in return.

They headed towards the Great Hall but were stopped partway when a very angry bush materialized in front of them. It took the a moment for him to realize that what they had initially thought was a plant was in fact Hermione Granger, or rather her hair. "You didn't follow the directions!" she snapped, hands on her hips and face flushed.

Harry and Ron shared a confused glance. "Excuse me?" The dark-haired boy asked.

"You didn't pronounce the spell right! It's Levi- _o_ -sa, not Levio- _sa_!"

Try as he might the boy couldn't resist a grin. "It worked, didn't it?" If anything his words only made her angrier. "I mean Professor Flitwick doesn't even have to say the words, why should pronunciation matter so much if you know what you're doing?"

Her hair puffed up even higher like a cat's. "Because—because that's what it says in the book!" She just about shrieked, drawing annoyed looks from the growing number of students heading to lunch. "You can't just ignore the rules!"

"Maybe you can't, but he can," Ron cut in, crossing his arms and scowling at her. "Stop yelling at Harry because he's better than magic at you! This is why you don't have any friends!"

Her eyes went wide, the fire draining from them as she seemed to slump inwards. Harry saw the tears gathering there and winced, but before he could apologize on his friend's behalf the girl had turned and run off.

"Nice going, Ron," he muttered. Ron grimaced apologetically.

Later that night they would save Hermione from a rampaging troll and from that moment on, their duo would become a trio. She and Harry never really saw eye-to-eye on the matter of following the directions, but since he always made it work she refrained from saying anything more.

* * *

Harry had never been a big fan of Christmas, the Dursleys only ever taking the opportunity to remind him of his lack of family, so when he awoke on the twenty-fifth of December he was shocked to see a small pile of presents at the foot of his bed. Ron was sitting cross-legged on his mattress, a maroon sweater with the letter 'R' covering his torso. He gave Harry a grin, mouth full of pumpkin pasty as he spat out, "Mewy Kw'mas."

For the first time, as he unwrapped his gifts, Harry understood why people liked the holiday, There was a sweater from Mrs. Weasley—he instantly put it on, touched by the gesture from a woman he'd only spoken to once-, a large box of chocolate frogs from Hermione, and even a book on Herbology from Neville, as thanks for helping the boy with his homework a few times.

The last parcel gave him pause, the enigmatic script making him frown before he realized the full gravity of them and tore the gift open. From inside it spilled a beautiful silvery cloak, Ron gasping from his bed as he quickly explained what it was. But for Harry its powers of invisibility were second to the fact that this had belonged to his  _father_ , and was the only thing he had of the man besides bad eyesight and messy hair.

He clutched it to his face, tears springing to his eyes as he breathed in deeply, faint traces of lemon and cedar making him smile. He didn't know if it was what he sought but it was comforting to imagine it to be; the smell of home and a family that loved him.

It was only when he and Ron were leaving to head down for breakfast, Harry tucking the Cloak under his pillow for safekeeping, that he saw one last package perched on his dresser. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple string, his name written in crooked letters on top. He paused, grabbing it with a small frown as he turned it over. It was thin and rectangular, almost like a book.

"You coming?" Ron called out from the doorway, clearly anxious to go eat.

"You go on," Harry answered with a small wave, not wanting to hold back his friend from his beloved food just so Harry could open another present. The redheaded boy shrugged and closed the door behind him, footsteps fading as he hurried down the stairs.

Harry hopped onto the bed and pulled at the knot on top, biting his lip as he undid what was probably supposed to be a bow. Finally it came loose and he pulled it away as he unfolded the paper. Inside, as he expected, was a book, except it had no name, just a smooth leather cover. He felt strangely hesitant as he pulled it open. And froze.

There, on the first page, was a moving picture. A man with spectacles and messy black hair had an arm wrapped around a beautiful redheaded woman with green eyes, broad smiles spread across both their faces. In her arms, wrapped in a green blanket, was a baby with her eyes and his hair, blinking curiously up at the camera lens.

_It's me_ , Harry realized in awe, one finger tracing the edge of the photograph. The couple spun in a circle and baby Harry giggled silently as they smiled down at him.

It was the family he'd always wanted; the family he  _used_  to have, one that loved him more than anything. Breakfast was completely forgotten as he watched the photograph cycle over and over, Lily and James laughing to themselves a dozen times as they coddled baby Harry, completely oblivious to the fact that their lives would be brutally cut short not long after.

The enchanted paper felt like it weighed a ton as he turned the page, revealing yet another one. This one was of himself, a bit younger, fast asleep and dressed in a baby outfit with animated Snitches zooming across the fabric. A pile of stuffed animals made up his pillow, and from the side of the picture large hands— _my_   _Dad's hands_ —pulled the blanket higher up his sleeping form.

The next one was a birthday party, James and Lily's faces pressed right up against his as they helped him blow out the single candle on the cake in front of him. Baby-Harry snatched James' glasses, Lily laughing as James blinked wildly and baby-Harry tried to eat them.

Harry's chest hurt as he flipped through the scrapbook, his sleeve wet from the many tears he'd wiped away as he saw the months leading up to their death. He saw them having a summer picnic, baby-Harry grabbing at flowers; he saw them playing in the snow, baby-Harry crawling his way through a snowdrift, determinedly trying to grab the Christmas lights; there was even one of him, only a few months old, dressed as a lion, eyes curiously dark-colored.

And then it stopped.

He turned one more page only to realize it was the last one, staring at the back cover in shock. He checked again, hoping that he'd just missed the rest, but that was clearly it. All he found was a small note tucked in the back, "From Hagrid."

Harry stared at it for several moments before he hopped off the bed and grabbed his clothes.

* * *

The walk to Hagrid's was twice as long as it would've normally been, the ground covered in a foot of snow and the walkway long buried. Twice he slipped on icy patches but pressed on, the photo album wrapped in his cloak and tucked under his shirt to keep it dry. He knew Ron would be looking for him but he would apologize for ditching his friend later; right now there was something more important.

His hands were numb by the time he knocked on Hagrid's door, the light through the windows telling him that the groundskeeper hadn't yet headed up to the castle to eat. Therefore it was only a moment before the door swung open and the hairy face of the enormous man was looking down at him.

"'Arry!" Hagrid boomed, smiling beneath his beard. "Come in, come in!" He stepped aside, though his bulk still filled much of the doorway.

Harry squeezed past and entered the hut, basking in the warmth of the fire. A large black dog hopped off the severely worn couch and trotted over to him, drool dangling from his jowls. The boy tensed, not having the best experience with dogs thanks to Marge Dursley, but Hagrid just chuckled.

"Ol' Fang won't hurt ya," he informed Harry, patting the dog with a large hand. "He's more scared of you tha' you of him."

Harry let the man nudge him towards the couch, taking a seat on the edge as Hagrid grabbed a tray of cakes from the counter and placed them on the small table before the fire. He took the chance to pull out the photo album which immediately caught the dark eyes.

"Ah, got my present, did ya?" Hagrid looked immensely pleased with himself as he sat down and said, "Owled everyone I could think of fer pictures, Professor Dumbledore gave me a few himself, and Professor Flitwick helped me make it. Ain't too good with my hands," he admitted, blushing slightly.

"I love it," Harry told him honestly, earning a proud smile. He held it close to his chest. "I just—I mean, I was just wondering—why aren't there any more?"

Hagrid seemed surprised by the question. "More? Why yer mum and dad took more pictures o' tha' anyone I know, thought I'd found them all." He looked upset to think he might've failed, and Harry was quick to reassure him.

"No, sorry, I didn't mean it like that," he apologized quickly, opening the book and flipping to the last page. "I just mean why aren't there any pictures before this?" He pointed to his infant form. "Wasn't there stuff from, you know, when I was born?" As he said it he realized how selfish it sounded and he quickly made to apologize again but was cut off by Hagrid's booming laugh.

"Ah, I'm sure yer mum an' dad would've loved some pictures o' baby you," the giant man chuckled, "bu' they couldn't have, seein' as they only got you when's you were three months along. You'da think ya didn't know you were adopted!"

For a moment Harry thought his heart had stopped beating. Hagrid, unobservant as he was kind, continued prattling on.

"You was only a baby when they got ya, bu' they loved ya the secon' they saw you. Wouldn't shu' up abou' ya whenever they saw me." One sausage-like finger gestured to the Halloween picture. "They had a big ol' Halloween party to celebrate getting' you, ya know? Only time I ever saw Professor McGonagall tipsy." He smiled in remembrance. "Professor Dumbledore—great man Harry, great man—gave ya a bewitched lion to match the costume that'd roar whenever ya hugged it. Never left your side."

The clock chimed out the out and Harry started, his heartbeat sounding too-loud in his ears as Hagrid made a surprised sound.

"Ah, better get movin' up to the castle Harry, breakfast'll be ov'r soon," he grunted as he pushed himself to his feet.

Harry, for his part, hadn't moved, just staring down at the picture in shock. Oblivious to his turmoil baby-Harry giggled as he made another grab for James' glasses, Lily laughing along, green eyes shining.

_I'm… adopted?_

* * *

Harry didn't tell his friends what he'd found out. Not Ron, when he met up with the redheaded boy to apologize for missing breakfast, nor Hermione, either through letters or when she returned to the castle. This secret was one he felt belonged to him alone, like speaking it aloud would damage it somehow.

Though both could tell something was different about him neither knew exactly what it was, and after their initial inquiry neither bothered to ask again, far too concerned with discovering the identity of Nicholas Flamel. Harry tried as best he could to keep up with their search but his mind was often elsewhere, a fact which did not go unnoticed by others.

Professor McGonagall held him back after class one day, asking him, "Is everything alright, Mr. Potter? Your practical work is excellent but you've neglected to turn in three of your essays, which is most unlike you."

He'd been quick to make up an excuse, but she wasn't the first; Flitwick asked a similar question after Harry's inattentiveness resulted in his accidental use of the Severing Charm instead of the Mending Charm, almost decapitating the professor. Even Oliver Wood picked up on it, not-so-subtly threatening Harry to get his head in the game or be replaced.

He couldn't help it. Hagrid's words had burned themselves into his mind, replaying over and over every second of the day. When he was young his parents had been a mystery, the Dursleys' lies not stifling his desire to have known them, the possibility that they'd actually loved him. Entering the Wizarding World only added to this belief when he discovered the gift they'd passed down to him, more tangible than their looks or even the sacrifice they'd made for his life.

Knowing that he had another set of parents out there was confusing on so many levels. One part of him was angry that he was no longer the blood child of Lily and James Potter, the people he'd looked up to. Another was guilty that they'd given their lives for a boy who wasn't even really theirs. And the final piece was hope, an illogical but constant curiosity that he might have more family out there, family who didn't know about him but might love him anyway.

Unfortunately these daydreams were detrimental to his focus as well as pointless to boot, since he had no way of knowing who his biological parents even were. That didn't stop it from eating at him day after day, or sending him prowling through the library in search of some sort of genealogy spell or potion, though to no avail. Ironically it wasn't until he'd lost hope and stopped looking that he found what he was looking for.

Ron and Hermione's search for Nicholas Flamel had yet to bear fruit and so when he had no luck on his own search he forced himself to go back to that one, having spent far too much time looking rather than helping his friends. It also let him finally use his father's Invisibility Cloak for the first time; in the light of what Hagrid had told him the magical garment seemed far less important.

Something held him back from waking Ron the night he finally donned it. This time—the first time—he used his father's cloak, he felt like it should be done alone. It was strange being under the cloak; though he could still see himself he knew that, to the outside world, he was completely gone.

The Fat Lady jerked from her sleep when he pushed the door open, inquiring who was there before she shrugged and returned to sleep. The other portraits were snoozing in their frames, even the staircases having ceased their constant motions. Hogwarts at night was both peaceful and eerie.

Harry's socked feet made no sound as he crept through the halls, ever-watchful for a prefect or teacher. He nearly tripped over Mrs. Norris at one point, the cat seeming to sense his presence but unable to actually see him. Filch followed closely behind and Harry ducked into a corner just in case the old man managed to sense him out. He remained there for almost a minute, waiting until even the caretaker's footsteps faded before continuing his journey.

Though the Restricted Section was his goal, he ended up wandering through several unnecessary hallways on his path there. Some detours were intentional—seeing the castle without students everywhere was an incredible experience—while others were accidental, the darkness making many turns look identical. It wasn't until after midnight that he finally entered the enormous Hogwarts Library.

He lit the tip of his wand, disliking darkness thanks to his time spent sleeping under the stairs. And unlike the cupboard where he knew every nook and cranny, the library's darkness was eerie, several of the bewitched books making soft noises as he passed. He pulled the Cloak tighter around himself the same way a small child would their blanket as he cautiously opened the door to the Restricted Section and crept inside, wincing at every creak.

If Harry had thought the main library was creepy, it had nothing on the Restricted Section. There was a stark absence of windows in the back of the library, the only light coming from the tip of his wand. The books here were noisier, shifting and whimpering like scared animals, the sound making his skin crawl. Shadows seemed to reach out with long, curving arms and more than once he pointed his wand at a silhouette he could've sworn was alive.

He hurried straight to the "F's", the air seeming to get heavier the further inward he went. He felt a surge of gratefulness that Flamel's last name didn't begin with a "Z" as he ducked into the row, pulling the Cloak from his head so he could see better. The books appeared to grow more agitated once he was exposed and he decided to make his time in here brief.

However, as his eyes trailed along the rows looking for anything connected to Flamel, a different title caught his attention. It was a red, leather-bound book with the words ' _Fawley's Wizarding Genealogy_ ' inscribed in gold. His breath caught as, Flamel forgotten, he reached up and pulled it from the shelf.

On first glance his heart sank, seeing only endless pages of wizarding genealogy as he skimmed through it. Names such as Malfoy, Black, Lestrange, and even Weasley took up entire chapters, long paragraphs describing the families' histories and their "purity of blood", whatever that was. He was just about to put it back when his eyes landed on the final chapter:  _Discover Which Families You Tie Closest To._

_As the muggle world presses against our borders it becomes more important than ever to retain knowledge of our family lines. The necessity of keeping our blood pure is why we must always be aware of our family's history, and which lines remain pure enough to interbreed with._

_Described below is the Sanguinem Necessitudines Potion, devised by Lilian Lestrange in 1843 to discern whether her son's bride was pure of blood as she claimed. (She was not, and was subsequently executed for her attempt at subterfuge.)_

_Using this potion a witch or wizard can discern their family tree—however, should any of muggle blood appear the potion will immediately cease generating further ancestors, as impure blood renders the magic weaker. This potion should always be used as a test to ensure the safe continuation of magical lines, lest they intermingle with tainted blood and the magic be ruined._

Harry frowned, the book's constant referral to 'tainted' or 'impure' blood reminding him of the things he'd heard about the Nazis in World War II. Was there some kind of wizarding prejudice he didn't know about towards black people?

So caught up was he in his thoughts that he didn't notice Filch's arrival until it was almost too late. Fortunately his hearing—which wasn't as damaged as his eyesight—caught the uneven footsteps just in time to yank the Cloak back over himself.  _Un_ fortunately he wasn't fast enough to avoid bumping into the man as he tried to escape the Restricted Section.

Filch's high, nasally voice called out like an alarm after him; "Student out of bed! Student in the library!" Mrs. Norris meowed loudly in harmony as they followed him with surprising speed, his Cloak whipping up around his feet as he tried to get away, the book clutched tightly to his chest.

His luck further darkened when Snape appeared at the end of the hallway, his menacing form looking even more terrifying in the darkened hallway. Harry had been so caught up in getting away that he hadn't paid attention to where he was going, and had wandered into the one hallway that the Potions Professor happened to be coming from. Worse, it was so narrow that the man wouldn't be able to pass by without bumping into Harry.

He looked left and right, eyes locking on a door he hadn't noticed before. Not having time to consider anything else he ducked inside just as Snape swept by. Filch greeted him from the end of the hall; "You asked me to come directly to you, Professor, if anyone was wandering around at night, and somebody's been in the library's Restricted Section."

"Well they can't be far," Snape answered in a cool voice, "We shall find them shortly."

Harry went still as their footsteps started up, but for once he was in luck as they were heading away from him. Taking a deep breath he finally turned to look around the room he found himself in. The old desks and unwashed windows were one thing; far more interesting, however, was the mirror.

" _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi,"_  he muttered aloud, forgetting for a moment to keep quiet. It took him several moments to what the words meant, only for him to almost smack himself when he realized.

The stolen book was still held to his chest, begging to be put into use, but Harry also wanted to know what he'd see in the mirror. Fame? Power? A life without the Dursleys? So, taking a deep breath, he stepped in front of the glass.

For a moment it was just his reflection and then it shifted. His eyes widened and he turned quickly, the image so real that he'd actually thought a crowd of people appeared behind him, but there was nothing, so he turned back.

It was his family. James and Lily stood behind his image, smiling and waving. Farther back there were more people but he paid them no mind, his gaze sliding to the pair on either side of James and Lily. He couldn't see their faces, just silhouettes of a man with brown hair and an even vaguer woman, but somehow he knew that they were his biological parents.

James' hand rested on his mirror image's shoulder and Harry put a hand on his own, half-expecting to feel something there. But there was nothing, just the cold of the empty stone room.

Yet he would remain the entire night, and several nights after, until finally Professor Dumbledore took the mirror away.

* * *

Harry glared at the grey sludgy mess filling his cauldron; all that remained of his latest attempt at the  _Sanguinem Necessitudines_  Potion. He'd been hoping that brewing the darn thing would be easier than saying it, but he was wrong.

Not for the first time he cursed Snape's terrible teaching, taking the sludge and dumping it into the fireplace. When he'd started brewing the potion he thought it would be like cooking; add some ingredients, stir, repeat.

He was wrong.

Not only did the potion require incredibly specific pauses—he'd been  _three seconds_  late stirring and it had turned brown and murky—but it also needed spells that he didn't know how to cast and which were only vaguely described in the book. The only possible upside was that it didn't require weeks of brewing time like some potions, though that wasn't much consolation.

Rubbing a hand over tired eyes he began the hike back to Gryffindor tower, taking the book with him. He'd taken up residence in an abandoned classroom for the sake of brewing, not wanting anyone to know what he was up to. He'd been owl-ordering ingredients and storing them in his trunk just in case anyone found his hidey-hole.

But even all those inconveniences hadn't stopped him from trying again and again to brew the  _Sanguinem Necessitudines_  Potion. All the trouble he went to would be worth it in the end if he could just discover any family he might have out there.

The Fat Lady shot him a disapproving look as he said the password and he belatedly realized that it was probably after curfew. He ducked into the common room slowly, hoping that he would be alone.

To his disappointment there was indeed someone there, two in fact, both with their arms crossed sitting on the couch. Hermione's frown was far outweighed by Ron's angry scowl. "Where were you?" he demanded loudly, jumping to his feet.

Harry blinked confusedly at his friend. "What?"

This just made Ron angrier. "Norbert!"

Harry's eyes widened as realization slammed home and he winced. Tonight was the night he was supposed to help Ron and Hermione sneak Hagrid's dragon to the top of the Astronomy Tower. He'd been so caught up in his potion-making that he'd forgotten, just like he'd forgotten to be there for the hatching. "I'm sorry guys," he said with a guilty grimace, "I was just… busy."

"Busy?! We got caught by Filch 'cause we didn't have your Cloak! We lost a hundred points!"

Thankfully Hermione cut in before the redhead woke the whole tower. "Where were you?" she asked, less angry but still definitely in the vicinity. "You're always off by yourself now."

Harry shifted the book in his arms uncomfortably. What was he supposed to tell them? He didn't want to tell the truth; they'd laugh at him for sure and Hermione would probably tell him exactly why he shouldn't go looking, even if he already knew.

Ron caught the motion and strode forward, face aflame. "Is it something to do with this?" he demanded, grabbing for the book.

Harry held on tight. "Let go!" he yelled, trying to pull it back. But Ron's attack had surprised him and the book was stretched between them, a cover in each boy's hands, and what came next was inevitable.

_RIIIIPPP!_

Both froze as the sound of tearing paper filled the room as the spine split right down the center. Pages went flying; landing on the floor is disarray as the boys were left clutching the halves of the cover. Hermione's eyes were wide in shock at the sight.

Ron went very pale. "I—I'm sorry," he blurted quickly, dropping the cover, "I didn't mean—"

Harry whirled on him furiously, crying "Get out!" with such force the room seemed to tremble. Both his friends immediately turned and ran, leaving him standing in the wreckage of  _Fawley's Wizarding Genealogy_ , the cover slipping from his hands as he struggled not to scream.

* * *

Harry stared at his cauldron in shock, watching the large spherical clouds of smoke emanating out of the top in five-second intervals, just as the book said. The mixture was deep lavender and smelled faintly of blueberries, exactly as the instructions described.

"I did it," he realized aloud, a choked laugh bursting from his throat as he checked the book again to be sure. Indeed, his potion looked exactly as it was described. "I did it!" He let out a whoop of joy, flailing his hands in a makeshift dance which he would've been mortified to be seen doing. But even embarrassment couldn't curb his glee at having mastered the  _Sanguinem Necessitudines_  Potion after months of trial and error.

He indulged in his joy for several minutes before the high finally faded and he returned his attention to the cauldron. Once the initial excitement was past he was hit with a wave of trepidation; this was it, this was his chance to figure out who his biological parents were. What would it say? What would he do if it was someone like Malfoy? Did he really want to know?

_Yes,_  part of him cried,  _I need to know!_  To indulge that curiosity that hadn't abated ever since Hagrid spoke those fateful words over the Christmas holidays. But then, James and Lily had loved him as their own son, was it fair to them to want this?

His uncertainty only grew the longer he stood there, guilt and curiosity at war until he decided he couldn't decide now. So instead he dug into his bag and pulled out one of the empty vials he'd been using to hold the ingredients and, in one motion, scooped the potion into the bottle and stoppered it.

Harry watched the purple mixture swirl behind the glass, still warm to the touch. It felt heavy with the weight of its implications as he slipped it into his pocket and shouldered his bag, hurrying from the room which still smelled of blueberries.

His plan had been to go for a flight at the Quidditch Pitch to clear his head but such plans were derailed when, turning the corner into the Transfiguration Hallways, he caught sight of Ron and Hermione being shooed out of McGonagall's classroom by the woman herself. He turned to head in the opposite direction but they saw him before he could, hurrying over.

"Snape's trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone."

Harry looked back at his friends, a frown donning his face in response to their hesitant ones. They hadn't spoken to him in over a week; or rather he hadn't spoken to them. He'd managed to piece together the book, an activity which took hours due to the lack of page numbers, but his anger towards them hadn't faded enough for him to approach them, regardless of the many apologizes Ron had given.

"We had detention in the Forbidden Forest," Ron followed, "we met a centaur there, he said someone in the castle's trying to steal the Stone. It has to be Snape; we have to stop him!"

Harry's frown depended, remembering the dog bite he'd seen on the man's leg and the jinxed broom. With great reluctance he turned back to them; some things were more important than grudges, and stopping their crazy teacher was one of them. "Did you tell anyone?"

Relief flashed in their eyes at his acceptance of their claim. "We tried to tell Professor McGonagall but she didn't believe us, and she said that Professor Dumbledore got called to the Ministry!"

His eyes widened as it clicked and annoyance transformed to realization. "Snape's going after the Stone right now!" He exclaimed. "We have to stop him!"

"But Professor McGonagall said—" The bushy-haired girl began, only to be cut off.

"It doesn't matter!" Harry interjected harshly, a bit more so than he would've normally, and the girl's wince was proof. "If she didn't believe you before then she won't now."

Hermione looked both insulted on behalf of her favorite teacher and cowed in the face of his anger. He crushed down the guilt, remembering their verbal attack against him a week before. "Come on, if we hurry we can still catch him."

* * *

Harry's surprise at seeing Quirrel instead of Snape quickly morphed to fear when he realized who, exactly, was controlling the normally timid man. Seeing Voldemort's hideous face  _growing_  out of Quirrel's head was something that belonged in a horror movie.

"Harry Potter…" Voldemort breathed, his lipless mouth stretched into a smile that it lacked the skin for. "Such a curiosity you are, boy… powerful… intelligent… ambitious…"

Harry couldn't have moved even if he wanted to, Voldemort's attention making him feel like a bug under a microscope.

"I know what you seek, Harry Potter…" the face continued, eyes gleaming, "I know about that which you hold in your pocket… the dreams you hold of your true family… join me, Harry Potter, and I can fulfill your every desire… give me the Stone and I will give you power unimaginable!"

It felt like the room grew colder the more the thing spoke, dark power ten times worse than what he'd felt in the Restricted Section oozing off him. It licked his form like flames, tempting him. He almost wanted to give in, to gain the power he spoke of…

But then he felt a spark of anger as he realized that the man was trying to manipulate him, control him, and he let it grow into a blazing fire that drove back the cold. "Liar!" He shouted, turning and running for the door.

" _Seize him!"_  Voldemort hissed, Quirrel running towards him in reverse like some sort of possessed doll. Harry slipped on the steps and threw his hands up, palms colliding with Quirrel's face, and the last thing he saw before he passed out was a column of smoke spiraling off the Defense Professor's body.

* * *

Harry watched the kind, if a bit barmy, Headmaster take his leave from the hospital wing, leaving Harry with even more questions than he had answers. The old man's words had conveyed a deeper meaning to them, a promise of more to know and things to come, and it made his head hurt just thinking about it.

_"Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn't realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign… to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection forever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed, and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good."_

Harry swallowed, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. It made him feel strange knowing that it was his mother who'd been responsible for saving him, even from beyond the grave. He'd only been with her for a year but she'd loved him  _that much_ … what could he even say to that? He didn't remember being loved that much and it hurt to realize what he'd lost more than he expected.

Digging into his pocket he pulled out the jar of  _Sanguinem Necessitudines_ , which amazingly hadn't been damaged by his jaunt through the Third Floor corridor. The lavender liquid swirled innocuously, uncaring of the turmoil it caused him.

Strangely, hearing about Lily's sacrifice for him only made him want to use the potion  _more_. Because knowing what he'd lost made him wonder if there was another parent who might love him like she did. What if he chose not to use it and missed out on a chance for that kind of relationship again? He had no one, no family, and if there was even the slightest chance…

Mind made up, he grabbed one of the notecards left on the bedside table and uncorked the potion. Bubbles of smoke began puffing out the top and the smell of blueberries filled the air. Then, taking a deep breath, he poured the potion out onto the blank backside of the card.

For a moment the purple goop just seeped into the page and Harry worried that he'd made a mistake, when suddenly it faded away. In its place a line grew from the bottom of the page, splitting into two branches which split the page horizontally. On either side appeared two names.

_Steven Grant Rogers_  said the first name. It sounded vaguely familiar to him though he couldn't place it.

The second name, however, made him actually gasp aloud and drop the paper, which fell onto his lap.  _Anthony Edward Stark_ , it read.

Harry knew Tony Stark— _everyone_ knew Tony Stark. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, the man was one of the richest and most brilliant men on the planet. Not a month went by that he didn't come up with some revolutionary new invention or accomplish some ridiculous feat. And though some people didn't like the weaponry his company produced there was no denying that he had changed the world all by himself.

_Tony Stark is my father?_  Harry actually had to pinch himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. It could be just a coincidence, but what were the odds of that? He knew he was smart, no matter what the Dursleys said, and he could even see a sort of resemblance—

_Calm down Harry,_ he told himself, shaking his head. It was entirely possible that he was just seeing what he wanted to see. The other name, Steven Rogers, didn't make a lot of sense to him; how could two men have a kid? Unless Steven was a girl, which didn't make any sense either, even if he'd heard girls with nicknames like 'Stevie' or something. Maybe two wizards could have a kid together?

But no, there had been no names appearing above either of them, which meant that they were both muggles. He pushed the question aside for now, focusing on the only thing he knew.

A bubble of hope rose in his chest unbidden, emerging from his mouth as a laugh. His father might be Tony Stark! And if he was, if he  _wanted_  Harry, then it wouldn't just mean no more Dursleys, it would mean he would have a dad! A smart, cool dad who could teach him all the stuff he couldn't learn in school because Petunia always had him placed in remedial classes. He didn't care that the man was a muggle; why would he?

So wrapped up in his own daydreams was he, Harry never considered the simple, horrible possibility that Tony knew of him. That he had never, and  _would_  never, want him.

* * *

**A/N: _Fawley's Wizarding Genealogy_  is a book of my own invention.**

**As of right now the story sticks pretty close to canon but it will diverge more and more within the next chapter or two. Don't expect regular updates; this story is something I work on out of boredom and only receives attention when I need a break from my bigger stories like _From Fire_ —that one is X-Men/HP, so if you're interested check it out.**

**For those who are interested, _Von_  posted a companion fic to this story entitled 'DoB: F'. It is on fanfiction.net and the link is: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10914953/1/DoB-F**


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Mr. Stark, I'd like to_ —

_Mr. Tony, my name is—_

_Dear Tony, I'm Harry Potter, and I—_

"Darn it!" Harry crunched the latest letter into a ball, hurling it into his wastebasket alongside the two-dozen other ones filling it. He'd been trying and trying to get what he wanted to say down on paper but he had no idea how to convey the gravity of his message without sounding like a little kid or a liar. How did you write a letter to your biological father, the richest man on Earth, and not sound like a stranger desperate for attention?

He flopped back on his bed with a loud groan, glaring up at the ceiling. He'd only been back at the Dursleys for three days and already it was driving him crazy. His relatives, thankfully, had no idea about the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and so hadn't yet tried to make him do their chores, likely believing that such a demand would result in them being transformed into frogs or something of the like. He'd done nothing to dissuade those fears, even if the most he could've done to them was create sticky goop or make their hair change color.

The past two days had been spent at the library a few blocks away, researching everything they had on Tony Stark. The librarians, thankfully, had not heard of Harry's bad reputation—none of the Dursleys liked reading so never ventured there—and therefore left him alone while he browed the internet. It was the single thing that he lamented about the magical world; the lack of technology.

What he'd found had been both deeply interesting and incredibly useless. While it was very cool to learn about his maybe-father's forays into science and technology, such things gave no insight to the question of if he was Harry's father. All he'd managed to work out was that, if Tony Stark  _was_  his father, Harry had to have been born when the man was just a teenager, 17 or 18 roughly. He'd also searched for 'Steven Rogers' but only came up with a bunch of links to Captain America, who apparently shared the same name. More than likely the one Harry was related to was named after that guy.

The one thing he'd found while browsing the web was that, in a stroke of luck, Stark Industries was having an expo in London in just over a week, and Tony Stark himself would be speaking. It was what had prompted Harry to start writing his letter; if he got it soon enough then maybe Harry could meet him when he came to London. It was like fate was playing it in his favor!

The only thing that worried him was if Tony even  _read_  his letters. A man that important probably got hundreds of fan mail letters a day, why would he pay attention to this one specifically? And that was only if he actually got them himself.

Sighing loudly, Harry rolled over and grabbed his pen, putting it to paper once again. He wanted to get this letter out today; there was nothing more important than making sure Tony Stark knew he existed.

* * *

In the boardroom of Stark Industries, high above the teeming city of New York, Tony Stark was drunk. For him this was not an uncommon occurrence, and indeed he had perfected the art of appearing to be completely sober even when he was far from it just for events such as these. His shareholders—a group of old white men he'd once referred to as 'The Heather Squad'—were completely oblivious to the fact as the 28-year-old CEO waxed poetic about his new creation.

Obadiah Stane, however, was not. He'd pasted a bland smile on his face as he pretended to watch Tony's demonstration, his own not-inconsiderable brain whirring away on a dilemma he'd encountered all on his own.

Steven Stark. Howard's foray into bioengineering, a supposed cure for sterility and method for homosexual reproduction that just masked his own obsessive desires to return the long-dead Captain America to life. At the time Obadiah hadn't cared for the notion but had acknowledged the money to be made in it; only later did he recognize it as a sign of his old friend's descent into madness. Using Tony had been his own idea but unfortunately it had backfired rather spectacularly.

Beneath the table he crushed the letter he'd received from one of the mailroom interns that morning. Written in neat but childlike handwriting was an unfortunate hiccup in his plan to finally take the reins of the company and remove the Stark taint forever.

He had been perfectly fine with Tony's removal of the brat from his life; the last thing Obadiah needed was yet another Stark stepping up to take his crown. He'd hoped that the brat was gone forever, furthered by Tony's blatant hatred of Howard and everything the man had ever done. Unfortunately the bastard offspring hadn't caught the memo.

Much as it disgusted him, Obadiah knew that Tony was soft. He may have masked it with crude insults and enough women to fill a train but beneath it all the man was desperate for affection, the very Achilles' Heel that had allowed Obadiah to keep his seat on the Board. If this Harry Potter was indeed Steven Stark—a fact which was basically confirmed by his mention of the other genetic donor—it could ignite some ridiculous sentimentality within Tony, a shared desire for love or some such nonsense.

No, this boy would not be interrupting his plans to regain control of the company. Of that Obadiah would make  _sure._

* * *

Getting away from the Dursleys to go to the expo was surprisingly easy. He'd spent most of his time there in his room, and any time they came in to demand something from him he would be 'coincidentally' holding his wand and practicing spells. When he'd first gotten home Vernon had taken his trunk and put it under the stairs, but Harry had made sure to keep his wand hidden under his shirt just in case. And he'd completed his summer homework back at Hogwarts so there was no reason for him to fret; he'd even managed to get the highest scores on his exams, higher even than Hermione, largely in part due to his solo practice brewing making up for Snape's atrocious teaching.

Hermione had been a bit put-off when he'd spoken to her, likely annoyed that he'd surpassed her even if he missed a lot of the homework, but clearly attempted to hide it in an attempt to reconcile. Though he'd shared the fact that it was Quirrel down in the Third Floor Corridor he hadn't told them that Voldemort was the one truly behind it; his grudge against them hadn't faded enough for that.

When the day of the expo came he woke up before even the sunrise, getting dressed and ready as quickly as he could. He'd grown a few inches over the school year so Dudley's clothes from last year—while still far too baggy—didn't hang to his knees like they used to, almost making him look normal.

Harry had struggled for a while to figure out a ride, even considering using his broom, before he had the idea to just take the bus. And while he lacked any muggle money he  _did_  have an Invisibility Cloak. He felt a small surge of guilt for using it like this but told himself that what he was doing was definitely worth a pound or so.

Donning the Cloak, he crept out the kitchen window and through the backyard, making his way around the front. The street was empty—it was just after six after all—so there was no one to notice the disembodied sound of footsteps or the occasional hand appearing from nowhere. The bus stop near the library was his goal, as it would be the one most likely to have people for him to follow inconspicuously after.

Feeling like a spy from one of Dudley's movies Harry waited in the bushes behind the bus stop, ignoring the few people chatting on their phones and glancing at their watches. After roughly fifteen minutes, right on cue, the bus arrived and he seamlessly followed them onto the bus.

He hit his first issue when he realized that, though getting on invisibly was a cinch, he couldn't  _stay_  invisible lest someone sit on him, especially since the bus was likely to fill up. He dithered for several seconds in the aisle before the answer hit him and he ducked into a seat in the back, pulling off his Cloak and appearing, for all intents and purposes, to be another paying rider.

This turned out to be a very wise choice as the bus quickly filled up on its way into the city. A few people seemed curious about a child alone but he tried to look casual, even going so far as to pretend he was asleep. Unfortunately he ended up  _actually_  falling asleep and nearly missing his stop, barely making it out of the bus before it began its route back.

The expo was  _massive_ , though supposedly only a fraction of the size of the New York one. Banners hung from lampposts and there were dozens of people going in and out, the morning rush just starting as the clock struck seven. He had no doubt that it would fill very quickly so forced himself to stop staring and start moving.

However, no matter how hard he tried, Harry kept getting caught off-track. He spent ten minutes listening to a description of the new StarkPhone only to get drawn into a display about the Worthington Haz-Tek Exoskeleton. The best part was that, for the first time since he'd started Hogwarts, he got to engage the scientific part of his brain that was so rarely used thanks to the Dursleys' dislike of his intelligence.

Yet another hour passed before he remembered his purpose, catching sight of Tony Stark's image displayed on a holographic—Holographic!—display. It was then that he dug into his pocket and pulled out the letter, making his way to the nearest security guard.

Since obviously he couldn't use Hedwig Harry had sent his letter using the mailbox of the abandoned Number 7 Privet Drive, whose owners had recently moved out. Every morning and afternoon he'd gone down to check for a reply, and lo and behold he'd received one. Not from Tony Stark himself but still.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_  it said,  _my name is Obadiah Stane, member of the Stark Industries Board of Directors, former CEO, and good friend of Tony Stark. Though many have claimed relation to Tony, you are the first that has any proof, and as such I would like to meet with you. I extend an offer of a VIP pass to the Stark Expo in London; simply show it to any security official and they will direct you to me, and I can introduce you to Tony himself._

The letter was sealed in a Stark Industries envelope and included a laminated VIP pass. He'd looked up Obadiah Stane and found that everything the man had listed himself was true, and that he  _was_  Tony's good friend. Harry wasn't sure why Stane had written instead of Stark but reasoned that maybe his claim needed to be approved or something before he could speak to him.

The security guard eyed him warily as he drew near. "Can I help you?" he asked in a sharp voice.

Intimidating as he was, the man had nothing on Snape. "I was told to give this to you?" he said hopefully, holding up the pass.

The guard examined it for several seconds and Harry had a sudden fear that it would be fake; or worse, it would be fake and he'd be arrested or something for faking it. Or that it was all a mean prank by the Dursleys. Or—

"Alright," the guard cut his thoughts off, "you're good." He handed Harry the pass back. "Follow me please." With that he turned and started walking, leaving the boy to hurry after as he was led past several displays. He almost lost the man twice in the crowd but eventually they left the main viewing area and the crowds receded. Harry's heartbeat was pounding in his ears as the guard stopped in front of a door. "In here."

So, taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

* * *

"It's nice to see you again Harry," said Obadiah Stane, taking a seat. The man was nowhere near as intimidating as his photos made him look; he almost looked like a fit version of Santa Claus.

Harry sat down opposite him, nervously fingering the VIP tag. "Again?"

"Oh yes," the man answered, leaning back in his chair and pulling a cigar from his coat. "We've met before, though you were much smaller then." He eyed Harry for a moment. "Thought the blond would've stuck, but ah well." He took a puff of the cigar as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a split of paper, holding it out to Harry.

He took it, eyes widening when he realized what it was; front and center was Howard Stark, original creator of Stark Industries, recognizable by his moustache and suit. In the background was a young man who was clearly Tony Stark, albeit minus his trademark goatee and looking strangely angry. But the thing—or rather person—that drew his gaze was the baby in Howard's arms. Blond hair, brown eyes, a perfect match for the one in his pictures of James and Lily, the discolored features now blindingly visible. "But then," he started, looking back up, "Tony knows about me?"

"Knows about you?" Stane chuckled. "Kid, Tony's known about you since the day you were born; he was there after all."

Harry looked back down at the picture, the young man's angered expression seeming even more so. "But why—"

"Why aren't you living it up in a mansion by the beach?" Stane smirked, and there was something about that smirk that was a lot less nice than the smile he'd given earlier. "Who do you think sent you away, kid?"

His eyes widened. "Tony?"

Stane gestured to the photo. "Tony's always been a wreck of a person long as I've known him. Brilliant, sure, but that's about his only good quality. Wasn't surprising when he ended up with a kid at seventeen. Of course Howard was the responsible one, the family guy; he loved kids you see. But Tony preferred a life without responsibilities." He took a long drag of the cigar. "Then Howard died and Tony was free to do whatever he wanted; all he had to do was get rid of  _you_."

Harry's heart grew heavier with every word, seeming to sink right through the floor. Stane delivered the words with utter apathy, uncaring as to the effect they were having. "He sent me away?" Harry whispered, looking back down at the picture.

"Mhmm. Day after his father died, if you can believe it. Never looked back. It's why I didn't give him your letter, see; I didn't want you to have to deal with him saying that to your face." Though it was said like he cared the man had lost all trace of goodwill, as if he was more concerned with his cigar than Harry. "Tony wants nothing to do with you. Not now, not ever. Trust me; you're better off without him."

The pictures slid from Harry's limp fingers, fluttering to the floor, forgotten.

* * *

That night found Obadiah in the bathroom of the hotel's Presidential Suite, watching in disgust as Tony emptied his stomach into the toilet for the third time that night. Like always the man's self-destructive behaviors had nearly ruined his reputation, only for Obadiah to save him—for the umpteenth time.

It was a travesty that a man-child like Tony was the one presiding over one of the greatest corporations on the planet. Men like Tony should be locked up in a lab, their time spent creating things that men like Obi could profit from. Even Howard had lacked the foresight to see beyond his inventions, too focused on his never-ending search for Captain America and a brighter future. Neither of which he ever got close to succeeding in.

Tony's stomach finally ran dry and he collapsed on the bathroom rug, passing out instantly. Obadiah took the opportunity to give the man a light kick to the face; hard enough to bruise but not enough to do any real damage, tempting as it was. He couldn't have his golden goose damaged.

He removed himself from the room, digging into his pocket for his phone but pulling out the crumpled letter from the boy instead. Scowling, he tossed it into the nearest garbage can; it wouldn't do to leave evidence lying around.

Perhaps he'd been a bit too harsh on the kid but that was life and the boy would have to learn to deal with it. And really it was better that any chance of reconciliation be cut off now; had Harry been any older and smarter he might've thought to ask questions that Obadiah had neglected to address, or worse try to get to Tony himself. Had that happened he would've been forced to remove the boy from the picture completely like he had that troublesome intern who'd found the letter.

Regardless it was just bad blood, no matter if one added Steve Rogers to the mix. The Stark family was better left as a forgotten stain on history; far more important was the name of Obadiah Stane, the one who would end the Middle-Eastern terrorist threat and make peace with the Ten Rings. Tony was the single domino left to fall.

Now if only he could figure out how to unite those purposes…

* * *

"Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts!"

Harry stared at the ugly little creature on his bed in shock, barely able to comprehend what he was hearing. Not only did the dirty little thing show up uninvited, nearly getting him caught by Vernon, but now it was telling him he couldn't go back to the one place in the world that he loved most?

This summer had been, by far, the worst of his entire life. No letters, no magic, and worst of all the truth of Tony Stark's relation to him. The man was his father alright, but far from wanting Harry, he'd been the very one to send him away. Stane's words hadn't left his thoughts for even a single day, the brutal honesty shattering any hopes he'd once fostered for a relationship with the man.

Tony— _Stark_ , as Harry had taken to calling him—hated him. Didn't want a kid, didn't want anything to do with him, and, according to Stane, would make his life hell if he tried to tell anyone. At first Harry had been torn between extremes, grief and rage colliding constantly. But after a month of utter loneliness it had faded away to a burning, lingering resentment equal only to that which he felt for the Dursleys.

Those emotions were made more poignant by the fact that his friends hadn't sent him a single letter. His grudge against them seemed ridiculous in light of Stark's rejection but it was clear that they didn't feel the same, leaving him to his own devices for two months straight. Apparently they didn't care as much as he'd thought they did.

"I'm going back to Hogwarts," he told the elf firmly, crossing his arms. "The hell I'm staying here with the Dursleys for any longer than I have to."

The elf—Dobby it said its name was—whined and pulled sharply on its ears. "Harry Potter is in danger! Harry Potter  _must not_ —"

"I don't care!" he cut across the creature sharply, Dobby's eyes growing huge at the tone. "I  _hate_  it here, I  _hate_  them, and I am  _not_  going to stay here!"

"Then Dobby has no choice," the elf declared sadly, leaping from the bed and running for the door. But—in a show of agility that surprised Harry as much as it did Dobby—the boy snagged the ratty pillowcase it was wrapped in and flung it back, sending it sprawling to the floor.

"You listen," Harry hissed, hands clenching almost painfully as he loomed over the elf, "I'd rather  _die_  than stay here. So just leave. Me. Alone!" The last word was shouted as he grabbed a book from the dresser and flung it at Dobby. The elf yelped and vanished instantly, the book hitting the wall with a loud  _thud_  that elicited a pause in the conversation downstairs.

Harry glared at the empty spot for several seconds longer. Whatever danger was lurking at Hogwarts didn't matter. What he'd told Dobby was true; death was better than staying here with the Dursleys. No matter what awaited him at Hogwarts,  _anything_  was better than this.

* * *

The shriek of the Hogwarts Express' whistle greeted him as he pushed his trolley through the barrier, swarms of parents flooding the platform and making it difficult to work his way towards the train. It was ten minutes before the train left; he'd have preferred to get here earlier but not even the promise of getting rid of his troublesome nephew could prompt Vernon Dursley to get out of bed before ten on a Saturday.

Harry counted himself lucky that his uncle's deal with the Masons had gone through, putting him in a good enough mood to warrant driving Harry to London to pick up his school supplies. Even Petunia and Dudley were sharing in the uncommon goodwill, though that was more likely than not due to Vernon's promise of presents for the both of them.

He managed to make it onto the train just in time, dragging his trunk behind him as he headed for the back, the same place he'd sat on his first trip here. But he was surprised to see, when he got there, that it was already occupied.

"Harry!" Hermione exclaimed in surprise, closing the book on her lap. Ron looked up from a face-full of corned beef with a small frown, Scabbers snoozing on the seat beside him. In the corner by the window was a young girl with the same flamingly orange hair commonplace among the Weasleys, though she only turned bright red and looked away upon seeing him.

Harry's hand curled tighter around his trunk handle as he gave the muggleborn girl a stiff nod. "Hello Hermione. Did you have a good summer?"

"Yes." She shifted slightly, looking uncomfortable as the tense atmosphere became apparent. "You?"

"No." he answered tersely.

Ron swallowed his mouthful of food before huffing loudly. "You didn't respond to our letters," he stated accusingly.

"I didn't  _get_  any letters," Harry answered with a frown. Hermione's expression morphed into a similar one. "I thought you didn't send any."

She shook her head. "I sent a bunch but you never answered so I thought you were still… angry." She swallowed and looked down.

Annoyance bled into anger as Harry suddenly realized what it meant. "That elf!" he yelled, making the other two jump as he dropped the handle of his trunk with a loud  _thump_. "He stole my letters!"

"Elf?"

He gave them a quick run-down about Dobby's invasion of his home and attempt to prevent him from returning to Hogwarts. Surprisingly Hermione, for all her obscure and pointless knowledge, hadn't heard about House-Elves. But Harry was far less concerned with them than with the one who'd tried to keep him from returning to school.

"House-Elves have a really hard time disobeying their masters," the redhead informed him, taking another bite of his sandwich. "Only the really old wizarding families still have them nowadays. He was probably sent as a prank to keep you from coming back by one of the Slytherins. I bet Malfoy has  _loads_  of House-Elves." He shook his head in disgust.

Harry took a seat on the bench beside Hermione, levitating his trunk up to the rack above the seats. She scooted over slightly, still very aware of the uncomfortable atmosphere hanging around them.

Things just weren't the same as they were last year. His conspicuous absences, their accidental destruction of his book, the lack of letters, and of course the truth about his parentage. But he had no intention of telling  _anyone_  that secret—not now, not ever. If there was one thing he had learned last year it was that people are fickle, and you never knew when they'd turn on you.

A knock came at the door and he looked up, eyebrows rising in surprise at the girl standing there. She was already dressed in her robes, though not in the manner that most wore them; her tie was untied, her sleeves rolled up, and the hem stained with mud. Her hair was a messy bun of blonde almost as bright as Malfoy's, and hanging from her ears were two radishes.

"Hello there," she greeted them in a whimsical tone, her large grey eyes fixed in a permanent expression of surprise as she examined each of them. Harry was ready for her to comment on his scar but she didn't seem to pay it any mind, far more interested in staring down Hedwig.

"Harry, this is Luna Lovegood," Ron introduced with an absent hand-wave. "She's Ginny's friend."

Harry glanced over at Ginny, who flushed brightly once his eyes met hers, the redness clashing horribly with her hair. She jumped to her feet and hurried past him, grabbing Luna and pulling her out the door.

"What was that about?"

Ron snorted loudly as he said, "Ginny's had a crush on you forever, mate. When she was little she read all those stories about 'the great Harry Potter' and now she thinks you're the greatest thing since flying."

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. Then he paused, noticing something on Ginny's seat. "Hey," he pointed out, grabbing the slim black notebook, "I think she dropped this."

Ron leaned forward. "It's her diary," he noted, "she almost forgot it this morning." He reached out a hand. "I bet it's full of love stories with you!"

Harry pulled it out of the boy's reach, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Knock it off," he said, standing. "I'm going to go give this back to her. Try not to eat the carriage while I'm gone."

The redhead flushed like his sister, quickly rewrapping his sandwich and stuffing it into his pocket. A trace of a frown appeared on Hermione's face, likely at his less than friendly response, but luckily she didn't say anything.

Harry made his way out the compartment and down the hall, diary in hand. Ginny and her friend were nowhere to be seen, forcing him to stop and glance into every compartment he passed in hopes of finding them.

As he walked he looked down at the diary in his hand, pausing momentarily to read the name on the back.  _Tom Marvolo Riddle_. It was a funny sort of name, almost sounding like a wizarding one except for the 'Tom' part. But if Ginny had been the one to have it then where did she get it?

"Hey, Potter!" called a voice, forcing Harry to lift his head. He scowled at the sight of Draco Malfoy heading his way, the boy having grown snootier and his face pointier over the summer holidays. "So they let you back in, did they?" he asked, head tilted so far back that Harry could see up his nostrils. "Always knew Hogwarts was for scum."

"Then what does that say about you?" the other boy retorted, sneering at the blond. "Believe me, we'd all be happier if you were… well,  _anywhere_  else."

Malfoy bared his teeth angrily. "Think you're clever, do you Potter? Well you aren't."

"Last year's final scores say otherwise."

Malfoy's eyes slid downward, fixating on the diary. "What's this then?" He reached out, making a grab for the book. "Keep a diary, do you?"

Harry yanked it out of his reach. "It's not mine."

"Sure it isn't," the blond scoffed. "Got any love letters to Granger in there, Potty? Merlin you're pathetic, the lot of you. With your dirty blood and your second-hand robes. You're no better than a muggle."

Anger, hotter and fiercer than Harry expected, surged through him at the word. Before he even realized what he was doing his fast slammed forward, smashing into Malfoy's smug little face with a satisfying  _crunch._

Malfoy let out a horrid yell as his nose broke, blood immediately gushing forth as he cradled his face. "You filthy little mudblood!" he screamed, grabbing his wand. " _Everte Statum!_ "

The orange spell shot straight towards Harry and on instinct he raised the diary, holding it out like a shield. The magic should have ripped right through it, however, to both boys' shock it simply ricocheted off the cover and back the way it came.

The Slytherin didn't even have time to yell before he was hurled off his feet, flying through the air and slamming into the wall behind him. He slumped to the floor, groaning in pain as the blood from his nose gathered in a puddle beneath him.

Harry dropped his hands, diary still clenched tightly in them, his eyes wide in awe as he walked over to the now-unconscious blond. He looked down at the book, surprised to see no damage done, and then down at Malfoy. "Who's a muggle now you prick?"

For a moment he was struck with the urge to literally kick Malfoy while he was down. The Slytherin was vulnerable, his bodyguards absent, and it would be very easy to add a few bruises or cracked ribs for good measure.

But then the moment passed and Harry shook his head, mentally reprimanding himself for even thinking that. He wasn't like Malfoy or Snape; he didn't hurt people just for the sake of it. But the temptation was still there, lurking just under the surface, so instead of letting it fester he turned and walked away, knowing that someone would happen upon the unconscious boy soon.

As he passed one compartment he hesitated as he caught a glimpse of Ginny inside, sitting with her friend with the strange earrings. He looked down at the diary, then back to her, deliberating what to do for a moment. The book was blank, after all, and didn't even belong to her to begin with. What was the harm?

So, not saying a word, Harry tucked it into his robes and continued on his way.

* * *

That night, after everyone went to sleep, Harry pulled out the diary once again. He sat on his bed for several minutes, just examining it. The pages were blank, as he already knew, the yellow paper clearly quite old and muggle in origin. The book was worn, its surface marked by scuffs and scratches that come from natural wear and tear, even the name slightly faded. There was absolutely nothing to suggest that the book was bewitched, no reason for anyone to think it special, yet he knew without a doubt that it was.

Pulling aside the curtains, Harry stood, making his way to the bathroom, diary in hand. Once the door was closed behind him he turned on the light, allowing himself a closer view of the book.

The name Tom Marvolo Riddle seemed familiar, like the name of an old friend he'd long since forgotten. It was a ridiculous notion of course; before Hogwarts Harry hadn't had any friends, yet still the feeling persisted.

He stepped up to the sink, running a small trickle of water through the tap as he held the book beneath it. For a moment it looked like it was sinking in, ruining the paper like it should've, yet when he pulled the book from beneath the stream the water immediately vanished, sliding right off and leaving the paper untouched. Harry tried it twice more, all to the same effect.

Next he spread it open on the counter, grabbing on of the pages and pulling on it with all his might. Yet, once again, the book defied the odds, the paper refusing to tear or even remain folded no matter how hard he tried.

As a final test Harry pulled out his wand, pointing it directly at the cover. " _Rictusempra."_

The Tickling Charm struck the exact center of the book before rebounding, smashing into a tile on the wall and shattering it like glass. Harry stiffened, ears alert for any sign of his roommates waking up, but, hearing nothing, he relaxed.

"How?" he muttered to himself, picking up the book. There were charms to make things waterproof, tear-proof, or spell-proof, but nothing he knew of could combine all three into one. Granted, he wasn't omniscient, but everything he'd read told him that multiple charms like this couldn't be used in combination. And even if that was wrong, how would Ginny have done it? She was a first year; that sort of magic was way advanced, and faded after a few days anyway.

Could it have been the previous owner, this mysterious Tom Riddle? Perhaps the man had figured out some way to protect his diary, maybe through a potion or something, but why bother to protect an empty journal anyway? And then why let it fall into Ginny's hands?

Harry turned it over a few times, wracking his brains to figure out its purpose. And then inspiration struck like a bolt of lightning, making him feel stupid for not figuring it out immediately; it was a journal. Perhaps the secret lay in writing.

He put it down, dashing out of the bathroom to grab his ink and quill from his trunk. Neville stirred in his sleep, muttering something about a toad before rolling over.

After a few seconds he was back, tools in hand. Trepidation rolled down his spine in waves, a reluctance he couldn't place making him hesitate before touching his quill to the paper. What if this was come kind of curse designed to ensnare people, like the book which made you speak in sonnets for the rest of your life? Or worse?

_Be a Gryffindor_ , Harry told himself, remembering what the Sorting Hat told him. Sometimes you had to take great risks to get great rewards.

Touching his quill to paper, Harry began to write.

_My name is Harry Potter_.

For a moment the ink lingered, the messy handwriting unchanging, before suddenly the ink vanished into the paper. Harry turned the page but found nothing, just the same blankness from before. He was about to close the book, frowning to himself, before he caught sight of something new appearing before his eyes.

_Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle._

* * *

"Hey Harry, wanna play a game of Exploding Snap?"

Harry glanced up, halfway through wringing the water from his robes at Ron's question. Quidditch practice was hard enough normally without adding in pouring rain; Oliver Wood, unfortunately, did not see it that way. "Sorry Ron," he answered, brushing his damp bangs out of his eyes, "I still have to finish that essay for Flitwick."

The ginger boy wilted for a moment before perking back up. "What about after?"

"We'll see," Harry said, already making his way towards the dorms. He waited until his friend turned back to the game before hurrying up the steps, his damp shoes smacking loudly on the stone. The Second Year Boys dorm was thankfully empty when he arrived, the others all downstairs chatting with their friends. Harry was a bit surprised that Ron bought his excuse since they'd only been back for a few days and none of the teachers had yet to assign anything.

He pulled his wet robes over his head, tossing them into the hamper as he headed towards his bed. After checking to make sure no one was coming in he reached under the mattress, digging around for a few seconds before pulling out the diary. He was still trying to think of a better hiding spot for it but, for now, this was the best he had.

_I'm back_ , he scribbled, putting on a clean pair of robes as the words faded.

A heartbeat late Tom's response appeared.  _That took a while_.

_Yea, sorry, Wood kept us late today because he says practicing in the rain is good for stamina or something. I don't know why he makes me stay since my job is just to find the Snitch._

_I don't know why you waste your time with such a meaningless activity_ , Tom answered, his neat and spindly handwriting making Harry's look positively crude.  _There are far more lucrative pastimes than sitting on a broom for hours on end._

_I just love flying. This way I can fly all the time._

A longer pause followed his words, a sign Harry had taken to mean that Tom was 'thinking'—if such a thing were possible.  _Broom-based flight has never interested me_ , the Diary answered finally, each word slow and deliberate.  _There is no joy to be had in sitting on a narrow shaft of wood for hours on end. I have always envisioned flight to be unrestricted, requiring no aid other than magic to keep you aloft. A broomstick is far from ideal._

_But it's still fun_ , the boy argued.  _And I looked it up, the book says that flying without a broomstick or magic carpet is impossible._

_Impossible is a word for muggles_. Now Tom's writing was jagged and sharp, its neatness colored by emotion.  _We have magic; why should anything be impossible for us?_

_Magic isn't all-powerful. There's still stuff that we can't do._

_For now_.

Harry shivered at the words, pulling his quill from the paper. Sometimes Tom would say things like that, little phrases which somehow held power and influence even from the pages of a book. It was clear that he was smart, commanding, and ambitious, and not for the first time Harry wondered how he'd never heard of Tom Riddle. Surely the man who made this Diary would have become someone great.

_What happened to you, Tom? The real you. Why did he give away his Diary?_

The words sank in, no response coming for almost a minute, and he was about to ask again when a response finally appeared.

_I don't know. I suppose he must have died a long time ago. After all, where else could he be?_

* * *

By the time Halloween rolled around Harry had taken to spending every evening writing to Tom. His friendship with Ron and Hermione hadn't yet healed and a part of him wondered if it ever would. He cared about them, really, but it was difficult to spend time with them when Tom was so much more understanding and empathetic then they could ever hope to be. Such as when he had decided not to attend the Halloween feast, to the confusion of both the ginger and the muggleborn.

"But why?" Ron asked, wide-eyed in bewilderment. "They've got all kinds of stuff; cakes, candy, ice cream, treacle tart. Candy. Lots of candy."

Harry had just rolled his eyes and shooed the boy out, waiting until the sounds of footsteps on the stairs faded before he pulled the Diary out from beneath the mattress. He also grabbed his photo album from his trunk, sitting cross-legged on his bed as he opened both. His parents waved up at him from the photos and he found a smile appearing on his face as he watched their magically-recreated images laugh and talk.

_You didn't go to the feast, I take it?_

Harry's eyebrows shot up at the words scrawling themselves across the paper. Tom had been getting better at recognizing things like night and day, a far cry from how he was originally, and although part of Harry was unnerved it wasn't enough to make him outright wary. He hadn't found anything about Animated objects being dangerous, even if none of the books talked about one as advanced as Tom, so until something truly worrying happened he'd trust the book-boy.

_No_ , Harry scribbled.  _It doesn't seem right. This was the day my parents died and everyone seems to have forgotten that._

_The public's memory is short and their temperaments fickle,_ Tom pointed out wisely.  _I doubt that many of your classmates even understand the significance of the Dark Lord's defeat._

The boy looked back at the picture, watching them kiss baby-Harry on the cheek.  _I wish I remembered them._

_Sometimes memories are more harmful than good_.

Harry frowned, resisting the urge to get angry. Tom was always like that, fiercely practical and logical. He couldn't imagine Tom sitting in the dark moping over his dead parents.  _What were your parents like?_  He found himself writing.

Tom's answer was instant and short.  _I would rather not speak of them._

_My mum and dad loved me. Everyone says so, although I suppose that could be a lie. But I don't think it is. They died to save me even when I wasn't theirs and that has to be love._

He'd barely finished when the words vanished, Tom's reply a bit more jagged and rushed than it usually was.  _What do you mean you weren't theirs?_

Harry nibbled on the end of his quill for a moment, a droplet of ink dripping from the tip as he contemplated what to say. He hadn't told anyone else about his adoption. It felt private, secret, and even if a few adults knew they never talked about it. Tom could be the first person he told; question was did he want to?

_I'm adopted_.

The words lingered for over a minute, far longer than they'd ever done before, and Harry watched the ink slowly dry before his eyes. Then, almost tentatively, they faded and were replaced by a single word.

_What?_

_James and Lily adopted me,_ Harry repeated, and like a dam breaking it all came pouring out.  _My father was a muggle, a famous muggle named Tony Stark, and he didn't want me so he sent me away as a baby. I tried to find him last year and that's how I found out. He didn't want me or love me and I was too stupid to realize that._  Burning wetness gathered in his eyes and he saw a droplet of water splash against the page, blurring the ink.  _I hate him. I hate him more than anything._

The ink ran down the parchment, nearly reaching the bottom before it was sucked into the book like a sponge. This time Tom's reply was slow, measured, each word carefully drawn.  _My father was a muggle as well._

Harry found himself going very still, his shaky breaths pausing in his throat. For some reason the revelation was surprising, shocking, as if the very idea of it was ridiculous. He didn't know why but the notion of perfect Tom Riddle having a muggle father seemed absurd.

_My mother was a witch,_  Tom continued,  _barely a witch at that. She was a pureblood, born of an all-magic family, yet she only had eyes for the handsome muggle Tom Riddle. He was rude, arrogant, and an all-around bastard but my dear mother didn't care. Even after he left her pregnant and alone she continued to love him, her obsession lingering until the day she died, holding me in her arms, naming me after the filth who'd impregnated her._

Tom's writing had grown less and less neat, the final words slashed out with such vitriol that they were barely legible. Harry found himself forgetting his own grief, too caught-up in the story of the mysterious Tom Riddle.  _What happened to you?_  Harry asked.

_I was raised in an orphanage,_  the Diary answered.  _Me, a wizard, a superior being, forced to dwell amongst the worthless muggles. I knew I was different, of course, even as a child, but I never had a name for what I could do. I never knew what it was that set me apart from them, I just knew that I was better. No matter what happened—not the constant summertime torment I faced while away from Hogwarts, nor the fear of the London Blitz—could make me forget what I was. I was better than them. I was a **wizard**. And they were just filthy  **muggles**._

The final word was pressed into the page with such strength that the words began to bleed, streaming down the page.

_Not all muggles are bad_ , Harry replied, unable to keep quiet.  _Wizards aren't perfect either._

Tom went silent and for a moment the boy worried he'd offended his friend.  _I apologize,_  the Diary answered, the words suddenly returned to their earlier neatness.  _I did not mean to anger you. You are right, of course; it is foolish of me to blame them all for crimes that they did not commit._

Harry sat back, a relieved breath escaping him as he stared down at the words. For a moment there, with the way he'd spoken, Tom had sounded just like Malfoy. But that was stupid; Tom wasn't anything like Malfoy, right? Malfoy was a bigot and an idiot. Tom was just speaking from experience. It wasn't his fault that muggles had been mean to him.

_Don't worry about it, Tom. You're my friend; I could never be angry with you._

_I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear that, Harry._

A tingle sparked at Harry's fingers and he jerked them back from the page, suddenly becoming aware of how very tired he was. His head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, too heavy to hold up, and sleep was the only thing he could think of. The quill slipped from his hands as he let his eyes fall shut, the last thing he saw before he fell asleep being a pair of glittering red eyes in the shadows of his canopy.

* * *

**A/N:I know this chapter doesn't have a ton of Marvel stuff - and the next one doesn't either - but it will pick up at some point. I write fast and loose with this story.**

**So I just finished my first semester of college. Woo! I love school but it is nice to be moving along. Hopefully I will get some more writing done now. I don't know how often I will update this story since, as I've said, I mainly write on it while taking a break from other stuff. _From Fire_  has been a bit of a butt lately but I think I am figuring it out. I also have another HP/Avengers in the works, although a much grander one than this. Not sure if I can get it off the ground now. I tend to prefer X-Men.**

**Also Disney just bought Fox which means the X-Men and Fantastic Four are coming back to Marvel, which means Marvel gets all their A-List heroes back! Could be good, could be very bad. (For those of you who don't know, the X-Men are Marvel's biggest creation and the movie rights were bought by Fox in the 90's. The fact that Marvel made a massive franchise off their B and C-List heroes like the Avengers or Guardians of the Galaxy shows how much the X-Men will add.) At the very least Marvel can stop pushing the crappy Inhumans stuff.**

**Let me know what you think in the comments, both about the chapter and about Marvel getting back the X-Men. Will they do the characters justice? Will we finally see a quality villain? Will they turn them into another bland comedy like Ragnarok? Also if I did an HP/Fantastic Four story (not based on the movies) would anyone be interested?**

**Author's Note:**

> This story isn't at the top of my priority list, falling second to my X-Men/HP story (which I advise you to check out if you enjoy that kind of thing). I have plans for it until roughly fifth year, and after that who knows. Don't expect regular updates.


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